


The Garbage Will Do: A Star Wars Story

by RadiationDude



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: A Star Wars Story, AU, Action/Adventure, Comedy, F/F, Jedi, OC, Original Character(s), Platonic fic, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope, Star Wars AU, light to no romance, platonic, the garbage will do, very very light wlw sexuality, wlw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-10-11 22:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20554046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadiationDude/pseuds/RadiationDude
Summary: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...On the very edge of the Outer Rim, on the planet SHAMBO, the last stop before Wild Space, lived CROW and OLSYN EADS. Two junkyard scumbags just trying to make a buck in this cruel and unforgiving galaxy.The GALACTIC EMPIRE a distant shadow on the horizon of their lives. Barely a thought, much less a concern, is given to interplanetary politics, emperors, and enforcers in black this far out on the rim. Crow and Olsyn spend their days heckling, scamming, and staying one step ahead of trouble in their town of MOS CRANMPYSS, and that's the way they like it.And that's how it would have remained if not for one man's inebriated mistake...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You may find things to be not exactly "in-character" for the Star Wars universe at-large, but this isn't meant to be any kind of super serious take on SW canon or anything. Think of it as my own Star Wars AU. Thanks for reading!! ;)

“I heard the empire had a space station the size of a small moon that could obliterate an entire planet, but the rebellion? BOOM! Blew it back to hell.”

Crow stopped hitching the caravan to the hauler, giving Olsyn a smirk and cocked his eyebrow. “That is the single most ridiculous sentence that has ever come out of your mouth. Do you know how big a small moon is, stupid?”

Olsyn leaned on the hauler, lifted his goggles to his forehead, and stared incredulously at his buddy. “Oh, you don’t think that’s possible? The empire having some crazy ass, planet killing weapon? That’s like... _ classic _ empire!”

“What do you even know about the empire? I’ve never even seen you leave Shambo, dude.” Crow scoffed and took a swig from his thermos full of hot Corellian java. The warmth of the drink ran through his body as he playfully chuckled at his best friend. The cold early morning air was crisp and clear, it was Crow’s favorite kind of weather. It gave him a nostalgia for days he couldn’t quite remember and a little sad about life in a comforting way he couldn’t quite express.

“I read the news! I’m well-read and informed on the current affairs of the galaxy.” Olsyn gesticulated indignantly. “What the hell do you think happened to Alderaan, then, huh?? It just collapsed into a pile of rocks? It was that imperial planet killer, I’m tellin’ you!”

Crow scratched his unshaven chin and took another swig, his eyes narrowed. “What the fuck is Alderaan.” 

Inside the mobile home the air was thick and humid. The heater had been left on too long and too high and the cylindrical home was starting to feel like Tatooine in the summer. Reggie lay naked and unconscious on the floor, empty bottles of booze encircled the man like a spell of binding. The half-drank bottles slished and sloshed as the hauler rose the mobile home to a more agreeable position. Reggie’s large and sweaty body began to slide head first towards the kitchen, like a piece of brisket left out in the sun.

“Wow. _ What is Alderaan? _ Wow. Unbelievable.” Olsyn shook his head in disgust as he and Crow hopped into the cockpit of the hauler. “You know other people live in this galaxy other than _ you _ right?”

“Hey, man, the core worlds don’t give a shit about my ass, your ass, or any other ass that happens to be shuffling its way around the outer rim.” Crow wiped the fog from his glasses as the warmth from the cockpit greeted the familiar cold of Shambo’s constant autumn/winter weather cycle. Once the thick, black frames were back on his scruffy face, he pushed the ignition button and flicked the forward shift switch. “So why in fuck’s name would I care about what happens to some planet I ain’t never heard of until it _ allegedly _ got _ its _ ass blown to pieces? Cool story though.”

“You’re hopeless, you know that?” Olsyn rolled his big blue eyes and grinned as he kicked his feet up and lit his pipe.

“Let’s get flapjacks! Flapjacks! FlapJACKS! Flaaap-jacks!” Crow merrily chanted as they pulled away from the now vacant alley lot.

Reggie’s body slid towards the kitchen, his head quickly introducing itself to the leg of his dining area table. This seemed to be enough to finally wake the sleeping bag of booze that was Reggie Hatglove. Confused as to why he was mostly diagonal, but not curious enough to become spatially aware, Reggie attempted to sharply raise himself to his feet. This led Reggie’s head to become quickly acquainted with the underside of his dining area table with a sudden and temporarily clarifying _ thunk _.

Reggie growled and grabbed his head, slightly too quickly as his robotic right hand was too eager to forget its mechanical composition and led him to just, basically, punching himself in the head with what felt like a steel wrench. Reg collapsed back down, his face now making a quick introduction to the floor below. Reg sobbed slightly and growled even louder, attempting to roll his soggy frame onto its back. He moved the three fingers of his robotic hand touching each finger to the thumb and then making a fist. He hadn’t been able to afford a human hand replacement, so he had to make due with a knock-off Yarkora kit he bought at a bodega on Kijimi back in the day. He reached for one of the bottles that had come with him on his journey towards the kitchen and guzzled what was left in three of them. The sweat from his long, greasy, salt-and-pepper hair, dripped and drained into his equally greying beard as he hoisted himself towards the heater.

The mobile home lurched and tilted, Reggie quickly steadied himself and switched off the sauna-maker. He wiped the sweat from his brow and peaked out the shutters.

_ Just what in the damn hell is going on out there?? _ He thought groggily to himself. Outside he could see the houses and businesses go by as if his whole house was on the move. _ Wait...it IS on the move! _ Reggie wiped the sweaty hair matted against his forehead and angrily, and quite drunkenly, lurched towards his bedroom area. Grabbing the privacy curtain for leverage and then sliding it to the left, Reg looked for his robe. 

The simple, hooded, steel-blue robe had seen better days. Much better days. Days of glory, days of friendship, days of peace, and days of a life long since lost to time. Now frayed and tattered, stained with all manner of unfortunate stainables, this once holy robe was now relegated to wiping a chin smattered with greasy foods, a wide array of alcohols, and various alien fluids. Reggie pulled the robe from its crumpled shame next to his pillow, unleashing a booze soaked memory from the previous night. The pyramid shaped object fell to his feet and judged him harshly. The foggy images and muted memories of last night began to take shape and swirl within Reggie’s shriveled and flaccid brain.

The hauler finally made its way to the edge of town. Passed the cottages, passed the hovels, passed the shopping district, until finally arriving at the very last business in what could still be considered the town of Mos Cranmpyss - Olsyn Eads & Crow’s Far Far Away Parts & Collectibles. The main store front stood sturdy and just in front of the twelve foot high concrete wall, sectioning off the impound lot/junkyard. A crown of razor wire lined the top of the wall, warding off any tempted scavengers that might have designs on a free sampling of the merchandise.

Olsyn pulled the cylindrical communicator from inside his jacket pocket, “Fitz, you there?”

FTZ-808, an older model L-1 tactical droid, was the third member of their trio. The once lustrous turquoise paint job was now dull and scored with silver scratches. Silver graffiti streaked here and there, decals, and stickers adorned his body. He clanked and creaked, but was still able to perform his duties as operations chief and head of security for Crow and Olsyn’s business. His trusty, and at this point mainly decorative, EL-16HFE blaster rifle hung behind his back attached to a leather strap. He ran a tight ship and, despite the grumblings of the aging droid, genuinely enjoyed his lot in life.

“That’s an affirmative.” The familiar drawl of Fitz squawked over the comm. His steady and pointed cadence as thick as molasses.

“Open up! We got the caravan.” Crow barked into the communicator.

“...and how am I to know that it is, in fact, the proprietors of this establishment. And not, in fact, would-be marauders, scavengers, and/or various ne’er-do-wellers?” It was every day with this. Crow picked up the small pillow he had behind his lower back for support and screamed into it, providing the emotional support he was more in need of at this given moment.

“Fitz, we’re just hauling in old Hatglove’s tin can. And I know, for a fact, that if you truly believed it wasn’t us, we’d already be dead.” Olsyn smiled wryly. You wouldn’t think a droid could have, or need, his ego stroked so frequently, but this galaxy had a way of keeping you on your toes.

There was a satisfied silence before Fitz’s trademark over enunciated confirmation poured through the comm, “...Please proceed to the designated security checkpoint.” 

Olsyn tucked the comm away as the steel gate squealed in protest of being moved on this chilly morning. “What could possibly be dangerous about picking up this trash can filled with sadness and regret.”

“That we might catch some intergalactic STD from touching the thing?” Crow chuckled and feigned a gag.

Unceremoniously, they dropped the mobile home at the “designated security checkpoint,” aka, the center of the yard. Inside, Reggie attempted to steady himself to no avail as he was sent once again to the familiar floor of his home. Lifting himself with his back against the wall, Reggie sat and quietly began to fume. Grabbing a hair tie from the inner pocket of his robe, he haphazardly pulled the mess of his hair together into a what some might generously call a ponytail. Hoisting himself, and managing to keep down the vomit that had clear and definitive intentions of escape, Reggie grabbed a mostly full bottle of Gran wheat-beetle jax whiskey and took three large gulps.

“Taayk muh fruggin sumberch fuugkin HOUSE, you dirtysunofasumbidges.” Reggie slurred, belching a mighty expulsion of anger at his unseen captors. “Fugyou UP, fugyou UP in the asshole!” He took two more gulps, finishing the bottle and smashing it against the counter, creating a jagged, deadly weapon in the process.

With his robotic right hand Reggie punched his own front door with all of his might, which might not seem like it was a lot, but it was surprising in its raw power and speed. The door blew open with the sound of a cannonball hitting its mark.

“WHAT THE SHIT?!” Crow and Olsyn quickly turned to see the vengeful, mostly nude visage of Reggie Hatglove in all his horrifying glory.

“You know’m I AMMM???” Reggie wildly brandished his weapon in the air. “I’mma muthefugggin guy fform the dayszzof the KNIGHTS azholes!”

“He was still inside??” Olsyn grabbed his old force pike from the backseat of the hauler. It powered up and flickered before turning off again. Olsyn slapped it against his hand, the force pike flickering and turning back on. “I thought you checked to make sure it was empty, Crow!!”

“I peaked! I looked in the windows man, I didn’t see anything!” Crow pulled his scattergun from its spot hanging on the back of the hauler’s window, loading the old fashioned blaster with a satisfying CHER-CHAK of the pump.

Reggie howled into the sky like a rapturous klorg beast from the depths of Shambo’s great canyon of Traglidonicus and then projectile vomited with the force of an inebriated klorg beast. Sweet, sweet escape.

Mos Cranmpyss Constable Voona finished her morning jog in record time this clear and cool morning on Shambo. She smiled and sang to herself as she showered, washing away the sweat and any stress she had been feeling about the day ahead, paying particular attention to her lekku. She was a very long way from her birthworld of Ryloth, a place she hadn’t seen since her childhood. This was fine, it wasn’t a place that held many fond memories outside of the beautiful sunsets on Myr mountain. The cabin her mother had built, and the days they had spent there Voona would hold in her heart until the day she passed into the next life. Here on Shambo, though, she was home, and she belonged. 

She donned her uniform, a grey and black motif, with a matching black Twi’lek headpiece that paired well with her dusky, violet skin color. She had taken it upon herself to redesign and commission new uniforms for the modest Mos Cranmpyss police force. A detail that mattered little to anyone besides herself, but if she was going to be the constable of this sleepy hive of bums and apathy, she was going to look damn sharp doing it.

She drove her cruiser through town passing all the usual folk that tended to be out on an early Solday morning. Graab the Gotal was rummaging through the dumpsters behind Ibzi’s sandwich shop. Graab always liked to talk about how he was a big deal bounty hunter until a blaster bolt to the shoulder ruined his marksmanship. Now here he was on Shambo eating old meat from the trash. A little further down, the old Merriweather sisters walked their four loth-cats, happily chirping back and forth at each other before waving to Voona as she passed. As she turned the corner, she could see Knot Kre’fey at the top of a utility pole doing some routine maintenance on the power grid. The bothan noticed her as she passed, giving a polite salute before returning to his duties.

Voona parked her cruiser in the lot behind the HQ, got out, hiked up her belt like any good officer of the law and made her way through the double doors of Mos Cranmpyss Constabulary. 

“Howdy boys. Keeping warm?” She poured herself a cup of Corellian java, not thinking much about what her two deputies might say in response. 

“Morning Chief! I’ve, uh- Well it seems there’s a bit of a situation -” Deputy Sneeb, a young Rodian who projected eager-to-please energy with all the force of a lighthouse in the pitch black dark, attempted to scramble out of his chair after Voona.

Deputy Dunbi Norple, his human partner, and the remaining sentient being employed by Mos Cranmpyss law enforcement, rolled his eyes at his erstwhile partner and continued playing his handheld gaming device. Deputy Norple didn’t think much of his Rodian partner. He always wanted to “do things” and “follow up” on calls, while he was perfectly happy napping in his cruiser, taking long bathroom breaks, and shooting shamblerats in the back alley. He only took this job because he got a free blaster and vague sense of unearned respect from his family. Sneeb tried way too hard and it was starting to cramp his style.

Sneeb chased after Voona, banging his knee on a sneaky table that was just lying in wait to attack the nearest nobby appendage that haphazardly swung in its direction. Sneeb cursed a Rodian swear, and didn’t notice Voona close her office door behind her as his mouth-snoot introduced itself to the sturdy obstacle.

Voona looked up suddenly as the shadowy outline of Deputy Sneeb WHAMMED itself into her door. With java in hand, Voona unknowingly echoed Deputy Norple’s eyeroll and opened the door. She leaned against the frame and took a sip from her mug. “Okay, Deputy Sneeb. What is so important that you must interrupt my morning contemplations?”

“I’m sorry, Chief. I don’t mean to disturb you! But, there’s a confrontation over at the junkyard. We just got a call from the Fitz droid down there saying that ol’ Reggie Hatglove’s gone wild!” Sneeb was mighty concerned. Reggie Hatglove was the town drunk, affable and a bit of an incorrigible rascal, but enjoyed by the town of Mos Cranmpyss for the most part, Sneeb and Voona included.

“Damn. Okay. You tell Fitz I’m headed down there _ right now _.” Voona put down her java, grabbed her coat and ran out the door. Deputy Norple snorted in amusement and stuffed another stale pastry into his scruffy face.

“Dontchoo _ dare _ cummintuh _ my _house you basterts!!” Reggie stood in his doorway, hurling a rock from the stockpile he had gathered for the defense of his homestead. His slurred warning reaching Olsyn and Crow at the same time the rock banged across the junked speeder they had chosen as their defensive position.

“Reg! Settle down! We didn’t know you were still inside!” Olsyn attempted to reason with the drunken lout as a rock whizzed by his face. “That was really close that time, you old jackass!”

“It’s just business, Reg!” Crow barked annoyedly. “You haven’t paid your rent in like, two months! Time’s up, dude. Pack up your shit, and get the hell off our property you lunatic!” Crow fired his scattergun into the air. “I’m gonna give you like, thirty seconds to get your addled, booze-soaked whits together and get the hell off our property before I blast your face off!”

Olsyn, concerned, pulled Crow close, “Dude, what?? You can’t do that!”

Crow biffed Olsyn between the eyes with the palm of his hand, “No of course not, I’m just trying to move this along. We didn’t do anything wrong. We repoed his trailer, now he’s gotta go!” Olsyn pulled Crow’s ear in retaliation. “Hey!” Crow gave Olsyn a push to his shoulder, with Olsyn returning the push to Crow’s own. Immediately Crow jumped and put Olsyn in a headlock as they tumbled to the dirt, shouting “hey!” at each other, finally pushing apart and back into their starting positions. 

“Grow up, would you??” Olsyn hissed. Crow blew a raspberry at his lifelong pal and ducked back against the speeder in a huff.

“You two lovebirds done kissin’ orryagonna fight me abouttit??” Reggie mocked and hurled another rock in their direction. This time hitting Olsyn upside the head.

“Gah!!” Olsyn fell clutching his head.

“That does it!” Crow was fed up with this bloated booze bag. He pumped his scatter gun and fired at the trailer. Shocked at the sudden upping of danger, Reggie dove back into his home, tossing rocks wildly as Crow moved closer, firing another shot. This time he fired directly into the trailer, blasting several liquor bottles, shattering them, their remains glinting off the late morning sun. 

“I’m only gonna say this once, Reg - FUCK. OFF.” Crow pumped the scattergun and aimed it directly at Reggie’s head. Reggie scowled and rose to his feet, his legs were not entirely sure about this course of action, but went along with it anyway. His steel-blue robe billowed in the breeze, the rope holding it closed was tied in the middle with very little commitment to the whole endeavor. “Put on some damn pants, and fuck off, Reggie. I mean it.”

“You can’t...take my….home. I….I have...nothing else.” He spoke slowly, making sure not to slur his words, but articulate why he couldn’t let this happen. His anger had turned to sorrow. He was a man with very little to cling to in the cruel and unforgiving galaxy. Crow tried not to notice just how desperate and longing Reggie’s eyes were, and now that he thought about it, how they always had been. “It’s...all I have. Just...kill me, then.”

“Fuck, Reg. Come on.” Crow lowered his scattergun and stepped back. Crow scratched his beard and tried to look anywhere but Reggie’s face. “Look man, we’re just doing our jobs. You have to make payments on...look, this isn’t news to you, dude.” Exasperated and feeling like a real asshole, Crow looked back to see Olsyn who was watching the whole scene from behind the speeder. Fitz was holding a wad of gauze to Olsyn’s head where the rock had made its mark. Crow shrugged in exasperation at his pal and motioned with his head in silent communication that maybe _ he _ could do something about this crying older man in their junkyard. Olsyn raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Crow made a face like “well what the fuck do we do now??” with Olsyn returning Crow’s face with a face that said “Just go over there and like, comfort him or something.” Crow raised an eyebrow and shook his head. 

Suddenly the BWOOP of Voona’s cruiser cut the tension in the air. 

“I took the liberty of notifying the authorities of our predicament,” Fitz aimed his blaster at Reg as he slowly made his way to Olsyn’s side. “Breakfast is also ready, by the by.”

Fitz pressed the little green button on the back of his wrist, eliciting an aggressive buzz from the gate, as if it had its own opinion to insert into the fracas.

“Ma’am,” Fitz poked the brim of his red Boonta Eve Classic cargo-hauler’s cap in respect and directed her towards the commotion.

Voona nodded and followed Fitz’s gesture, placing her hand tentatively on her service weapon. Every time Voona saw Fitz, she couldn’t help but think how strange it was to see a droid in a hauler’s cap and a denim vest. He kind of creeped her out; the same way seeing your refrigerator wearing a bowtie and a top hat might creep you out. There wasn’t anything  _ inherently wrong  _ with your fridge wearing a bowtie or a top hat, but just the thought, that at some point, your fridge made the conscious decision to dress itself was...unsettling.

She came around the corner, the scene unfolding in front of her was one she had never quite seen before during her time as chief constable of Mos Cranmpyss. Voona sighed heavily, removing her hand from her weapon and crossing her arms. Her face concerned, but not wholly unamused by the sight greeting her in the boys’ junk lot. She took a moment to fully absorb the details of the performance she had walked into late, appreciating the absurdity playing out before her eyes.

“Put down the scatter-gun, Crow,” Voona’s voice was not unlike an overworked, single mother of three unruly boys; stern and aggressively patient, “and Reg, catch yourself on. No one needs to see your extracurriculars.”

Reg, noticing the truth of his state for the first time tried to shut the door of his barn and retreated into his home. Crow kicked some dirt towards Reg’s direction and saddled his weapon across his shoulder.

“Chief!” Olsyn came out of his defensive position and gave Voona a respectful salute, that despite its brief stay in this world managed to be both awkward and embarrassing enough for no one to make direct eye contact with Olsyn for at least five minutes following its assertion. “We were just doing our job, we’re sorry that we took Reggie with us, but we had no idea he was in the caravan when we hauled it.”

“If anything it’s _ his _fault for not making himself known to the professionals. It’s not our fault the dumpster still had garbage in it.” Crow’s indignant insults only served to roust Reggie from his dormancy, like a klorg beast in spraying season. Like a klorg beast finally wearing a pair of pants, perhaps, for the first time.

“Woah! Woah woah woah! Hey! Woah!” Reggie stumbled with both feet planting themselves firmly to the ground, a graceful waxing and waning that some would only find in the most elegant of drunk tanks, a stumbling shamble only the proud parents of a toddler would cheer. “My home is a gurddram castle of dislinquinty! I’ll have you know, _ I’ll _ have _ your _ know…!” The sloshing of Reggie’s thoughts spilled out of his mouth with no real sense of direction or concern for bystanders. Voona caught the poor sop as he attempted a hearty shove of Crow’s shoulder. Crow, using all the awareness of a person with functioning eyes, could see the affront coming and took a single step to the right, causing Reg’s aforementioned stumble.

“Hey hey, woah there big fella. Look, Reg. They’re technically right, if your caravan is repoed, you’re trespassing.” Voona’s gentle voice and reasoned tone seemed to smooth over Reg’s lumps. He scowled and glared at Crow, Olsyn, and Fitz and softened looking back at the Chief. “I’ll take a look at the paperwork to make sure everything’s on the up and up and then we can take steps from there, okay?”

“Fine. Fine you make sure, Chief. But I’mrgonna get _ back _ my place!” Reggie swung around, jabbing a finger towards the trio, “I swear on the Code, I’ll get’er back!” 

Crow, Olsyn, and Fitz carefully followed Voona as she escorted Reggie to the back of her cruiser. With his head ready to duck into the backseat Reggie glanced back at his home. The first place he’d really, truly called home all those years ago. 

“And don’t touch my stuff!” Reg snarled in Crow’s direction.

“Oh yeah, cause I’m _ dying _ to rifle through your collection of poor life choices and the interesting _ smells _ you’ve discovered!” Crow fired back, rolling his eyes so hard he almost sprained them, not for the first time in his life.

“Hey man, don’t _ touch _ my smells! Those smells better be _ right _ where I left ‘em when i get back!” Voona raised Reggie’s window, cutting off the banter that had admittedly seemed to have gotten away from everyone involved. Olsyn handed her the official repo order form he had dug out of his jacket and gave Reggie his best disapproving head shake. A disapproving head shake his mother had passed down to him that he reserved only for the gravest of offenders. Voona gave the boys a final nod and a last look of sympathy before pulling away from Far Far Away Parts & Collectibles, now carrying one inebriated vagabond.

Reggie stared out the window, his gaze holding onto his caravan as the junkyard gate slowly closed, grinding and squealing. 

“I got a funny feeling. Like I'm never gonna see her again.” A heaviness fell over Reggie Hatglove, he’d lost so much over the twilight of his life, he hoped he would never feel this way again. All he had _ left _ were his relics and his home. A small, insignificant slice of sanctuary, a safe place from an unforgiving galaxy’s boot that had been pressing on his neck for nearly twenty years. And now it, too, was lost.


	2. Chapter 2

People wonder, why does a TIE fighter scream? Whether it’s tearing through the stars, or polluting the sky of an alien world with its presence, a TIE fighter screams. Some believe it’s a portent of things to come, others believe it’s the desperate, raging cries of the lives it’s taken. Either way, they both mean the same thing in the end - death. The scream of an Imperial TIE fighter will always be the sound of death.

The pristine, pyramidal shuttle followed closely in tandem as the TIE fighter’s cold, unblinking eye locked its gaze upon the planet Shambo.

The brisk late morning air was beginning to give way to the afternoon’s warmth as Voona’s cruiser returned to HQ with its now clammy and increasingly regretful cargo in tow. Voona gave Reg a hand, hoisting the lunk out of the backseat. The swimming spin of his head reminded him of his time on Mon Calamari and how much of his breakfasts, lunches, and dinners he had left behind on those unforgivably excitable waves. He stumbled and found steady purchase on the Chief’s strong shoulders. Reg had always respected Voona, but more so than that he had liked her, too. She didn’t take shit from anyone and had always shown him kindness, even when he was being particularly burdensome. He trusted her.

Reg busted through the doors of the station with force and managed to right himself quickly, giving a cursory glance behind him to see if Voona still had his back. Deputies Sneeb and Norple looked up with a shot, Sneeb nearly falling out of his chair.

“If you’re gonna come in here with shit on your shoe, at least have the decency to scrape it off outside, Chief!” Norple snorted and laughed at his own joke, a full-mouthed braying that scraped its chewed nails against the eardrum.

Reggie’s eyes narrowed, he gave his left hand a sharp, three-fingered salute in Deputy Norple’s direction, “Blow it out your ass, Norple!”

The deputy’s buck-toothed grin dropped as a loud, sustained blast bellowed from his bowels. A triumphant trumpeting that seemed to begin from the chasms of a deep and voluminous chamber of gas. Norple’s disbelief fell way to surprise which flowed into concern as the roiling rumble gurgled into solidity. 

“What in the actual fuck, Norple?!” Voona clasped her hand over her nose and mouth in a vain attempt to hinder the oncoming offense.

Reggie’s whole body shook with laughter. A silent, gasping, bone rattling hilarity that could only truly escape through the tears rolling down his cheeks. He braced himself on a nearby desk as the abject horror on Voona’s face only served to exacerbate his uncontrollable hysterics.

“I-I-I didn’t!...I don’t know why-” Norple struggled to find the words, his face contorted in a radiant blend of humiliation and horror.

“Sneeb, get the extra uniform and burn that chair. Norple, fuck’s sake, hit the showers. Goddess almighty!” Voona desperately tried to remember how nice her morning had been only a few hours ago. There wasn’t enough java in the whole Empire that could salvage this day. She gave Reggie a move-it-along push, resuming his escort to the drunk tank, still shaking her head in disbelief.

Reggie’s chuckles began to wrap up as Voona helped ease him down on the cot in the tank. He sighed and wiped a tear from his eye, resting his back against the wall. Voona stepped out and returned with a small folded stack made up of a standard issue sweatshirt and sweatpants, topped with a pair of cheap slippers.

“So how about you take yourself a little rest? You sober up, shower, put on some clothes here and then we can get to work figuring out the situation, okay?” Voona always believed that compassion came first. Most people that came through her doors were just having a rough go of it, a bad day, trouble at home, struggling within themselves in some way. She always made the effort to at least try and understand what they were going through. Mos Cranmpyss wasn’t Coruscant, she knew everyone in town by name, and she made sure they knew her, too.

Reggie let out a long sigh, the life his laughter had given him had faded and Voona couldn’t help but notice how somewhat hollow he had become in the dim holding cell. 

“I...I’m sorry about that, back there.” He lowered his head and smiled in a way that was more of a grimace, a smile with no joy behind it. “That was a real messed up fuckin’ thing to do. I just...it was impulsive and cruel, and I’m sorry.”

Voona scrunched her face up a little and cocked her head, “You mean laughing at Norple? I laugh at Norple all the time. Plus he really just obliterated his pants. That was insane. I’ll give you pass on that one, haha.”

“You don’t understand. I did that. Voona, I…” Reggie trailed off. It was on the tip of his tongue. A secret he had kept for nearly fifteen years, ever since he set foot on Shambo for the first time. The day he walked into the resettlement office, sat down in front of the magistrate and gave her his name. It was nearly fifteen years ago that he was asked to give his full, lawful name. Fifteen years ago he looked upon the magistrate, wearing her fancy hat, and fussing with her gloves. That was the day Regwyk Dwarfstar, Jedi Knight, Disciple of the Living Force, died and Reggifford Hatglove, no one and nothing, was born.

“Voona...if I tell you something...something I haven’t told a single living soul, can you keep it between us?” Reg avoided eye contact with the Chief. Finally he would unburden himself. Finally, he would say the words “Jedi Knight” to someone, out loud. He could let someone see who he really was. A Knight, a warrior of old, not just some pathetic drunk, pissing himself and passing out behind the cantina every night. Chief Voona would be the first to know in fifteen long, god damn exhausting years. Unfortunately, precisely two minutes after Voona would leave Reggie alone in the tank, he would come to realize just how deeply incorrect he was about that thought.

“Of course, Reg. You can tell me anything.” Voona was skeptical, as Reg’s speech still hadn’t quite solidified into sober sentences, but she knew being the Chief meant getting confessions of all kinds.

“A long time ago...far, far from here. I used to be _somebody_. I used to be a _knight._ I fought in wars, and I roamed all over the galaxy rightin’ wrongs and bein’ a hero.” A nostalgic grin crept across his face as he pictured himself: young, handsome, his hair black as night, his saber a brilliant blue illuminating his righteous path across the stars. “I was a _Jedi_, Voona. And I was damn _good_ at it. I _single-handedly_ defeated Morag and saved the Sunstar-Shadowstone! I witnessed the final days of the Infinite Child! I saw the rings of Züd and the great beasts that live in the void of space. I hunted the _traitor_ Binks to Nal Hutta and made sure he _paid_ for his crimes...I felt the Force _flow_ _through me_. I was connected to it _all…_” Reg trailed off, the faintest touch of the Force brushed against his skin. Like a spring breeze carrying the smell of wild flowers and the awakening of life. The way it used to be.

_ How many times has Reg 'revealed’ this story to me know? Six times? Seven? _ Voona thought to herself. She was an expert at maintaining her “sternly surprised, attentive face” at this point, and even added in a very small, but audible gasp on the word “Jedi.” Getting completely destroyed on Gran wheat-beetle jax whiskey and playing exiled Jedi was Reg’s go-to black-out ramble. All she had to do was get to the part about the time he told a “Master Yoda” to shove it-

“...and I said to that wrinkly little puke, ‘you can shove it up your ass for all I care!”

_ There ya go, we’re at the home stretch now _ , Voona raised her eyebrows and dropped her mouth open, fulfilling her part in what she thought of as  _ The Drunken Master Show. _ This time though, the show would end, not as it usually did with bravado and displays of strength, but in pathos.

“...I never  _ truly _ lost until that day. At least, that’s what I thought, until  _ today _ .” Reg stopped his story and looked at Voona. She could see in his eyes that something was different. She suddenly felt an ache in her heart for him, a heavy sadness that filled the air around them. “Everything’s been  _ taken _ from me, Voona. My faith, my friends, and now my  _ home _ . How am I supposed to get it back? The Force is supposed to show you you’re path, but I don’t see  _ anything _ . Just grey. Just grey  _ nothing _ .”

Voona kneeled by the side of his cot and put a hand on his shoulder, “I don’t know much about the Force or any of that mystical stuff, but you can trust in  _ me _ , okay? A long time ago, my mom put her trust in the Jedi and they saved us. They got us off Ryloth when the Separatist army invaded. They gave us a chance at a new life, and all of that led me here to Shambo.” Voona stood back up, hiked her belt, and tugged her jacket into place, “Maybe  _ that _ means something. Maybe it doesn’t. Either way, I’ve got your back, Reg.”

He smiled, his eyelids suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. “Thanks, Chief. You would’ve made one badass Jedi, back in the day.”

“I know.” Voona winked, flashing a grin that could make even the Emperor blush. “Sleep it off. I’ll bring ya a sandwich when you sober up.”

Reg thanked her one last time before attempting to get as comfortable as one could on a drunk tank cot. The swimming in his head had made way for a good hard pounding. The room lurched and heaved as he shut his eyes tight, but the lurching followed him into the dark.  _ Why in hell’s name would anyone want to be sober?  _ He eased himself onto his back and took a deep breath, hoping to exorcise at least a small portion of the pounding in his skull.  _ Wait a minute! Maybe, I don’t have to be sober! _ , a small flickering of a memory came to life underneath the pulsing beat of his sobering brain. He had stashed an emergency nip within the secret compartment of his robotic right hand. He touched the tips of each of his mechanical digits to his thumb in a simple pattern, and with a click, a two inch hatch opened revealing a small bottle of Devorian apple jack brandy.  _ Just what the doctor ordered, _ Reg congratulated himself, pleased with his own cleverness. As he took a healthy swig from the diminutive bottle, something unfortunate began to happen. That small, flickering memory began to grow. It began to grow bigger and bigger until a scene began to emerge in the dark of his booze-soaked subconscious.

In the theater of his mind Reg laughed and stumbled towards his caravan. In one hand was a bottle of Dantooine liquor, and the other was around the waist of the lustfully embonpoint Lynette Lux, owner and proprietor of Lux Interior Maintenance & Repair. They’d had a wild night of drinks, feets of strength, and the trading of flirty barbs.  _ Did I tell her I was a Jedi? _ , Reg indeed had pronounced at great length and equal volume about his status as a fugitive Jedi Knight.  _ Wait, how many people  _ have _ I told in this crap-town…,  _ in fact Reg’s status as a great and powerful master of the force was known to every resident of Mos Cranmpyss. The flame of his memory roared brightly once again as he saw himself open his trunk. A trunk wherein he kept all of his most valuable relics. His ruined lightsaber, his kyber crystal, his Jedi robes, trinkets and keepsakes of triumphs and friendships lost to time, and finally, his most sacred of relics. His holiest of holy possessions, kept secret, kept safe from the writhing, slither of the dark side.

“It’s a fuckin’  _ holocron _ , is what it is!” Reg bellowed in his memory, trashed out of his mind, standing proudly in a pair of underwear only the most brazenly confident would dare own or wear. Lynette, equally as wasted as the inebriated Knight before her, giggled and oohed and aahed in intoxicated enchantment, kneeling on the floor. “Yup! This shit right here. This’sgot the shush-shush, big boy szecrets all in’im. Allthuh stuff ya didn’t even mknow! Jedi zeecrets!” Reg ungracefully joined Lynette on the floor, the two of them kissed deeply as equally ungainly as Reg’s descent had been to the floor. “You wanna see, you sexy little sex kitten,” Reg winked and Lynette nodded as she took two big gulps from the nearby bottle of Corellian whiskey. The old Knight closed his eyes tightly, exhaled a steadying breath and waved his left hand over the ornate cube. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing.

“Nothin’s happenin’ Reg.” Lynette smirked and raised an eyebrow.

Reg scrunched his entire face, opening one eye to see exactly what he could be doing wrong. “Ah, what’evr, this thing’s an old peesa’ shit.” Reg grumbled and hurled the holocron over his shoulder, across the room.

“Jus’ like you! Haha!” Lynette laughed and gave Reg a playful shove. He feigned indignation and joined her laughter. She pulled off her top and with a frisky tackle, pinned Reg to the floor. They giggled together and kissed, their fun just beginning.

In the corner of the caravan, silently awakening amid the breaths and moans of Reggie and Lynette, the holocron glowed with life. And far away, something dark, something ancient and cruel took notice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your Author here! yup it's 2020, haha. I'm currently working on the next chapter, so bear with me!
> 
> So i've updated various sections of the three chapters i've posted. I've added some details and expanded some parts. My intent is to not do that (after this one update i made today, 1/2/20, to ch3) anymore. Any changes i make to chapters 1-3 i'm going to save until i've completed the entire story. Thanks for reading! :)

G’Nart carefully shifted on the metallic seat of the lavatory facilities. His back had been acting up ever since he turned one hundred and seventy. Two years in and every shit was like defusing a thermal detonator someone had strapped to his back. One false move and his spine was likely to erupt in white hot pain. His grandfather had always said, back on Gentes, “Once you hit a hundred n'fifty it’s all downhill, G’Nart m’boy!” He would always laugh and roll his eyes, Gramps was nothing if not a dramatic old hog. _ “I suppose I’m not much different these days. Gramps would be proud!” _ He chuckled and snorted to himself as he finished up in the can, washed his hands and giving his tusks a cursory once over, tucking the small brush back into his overalls.

The spaceport had been quieter than normal these past few days. Word was that the Empire had suddenly tightened restrictions on travel, with an especially cruel eye towards the outer rim. And no explanation or elaboration, of course. _And with no regard to the poor old spaceport masters themselves._ _What else was new! _G’Nart bristled and puffed a disgruntled snort from his snout. 

“Blackhearted Imps care nothing for the honorable, dirty hands of hardworking folk!” He kicked the side of his operations console and spit on the ground. With a start, nearly knocking G’Nart off of his stool, the transmitter barked with a sharp crackle and electronic white noise. Taking a moment to steady himself from the sudden interruption, G’Nart investigated the origin of the potential customer’s broadcast. Sweat formed on the rough, pink skin of G’Nart the Ugnaught as he recognized the channel. Imperial. As if the agents of the Empire had deemed his dusty old workbench to be a matter of intrigue and heard his treasonous words, the timing was uncomfortable to say the least. G’Nart gasped sharply as his back spasmed, sending a sobering stab of pain up his spine, his muscles twisting for a brief, but significant, moment.

“...Do you copy? This is Imperial shuttle zero zero, mark one one three, mark eight, and TIE Interceptor forty-eight Mark ninety-one, requesting permission to land. Do you copy? Over.” The voice over the comm hailed. The controlled, commanding tone of an Imperial stormtrooper.

G’Nart snort and spat one more time, “This is Mos Cranmpyss Spaceport, ‘port Master G’Nart speaking. Please transmit your docking clearance codes and proceed to hangars one and two at the transmitted coordinates. I have spoken.” He flicked the pertinent switches on his console before hoisting himself from his stool and alerting his droids to the incoming vessels. G’Nart was nothing if not a consummate professional, whoever the customer may end up being. _ Fucking bucketheads. _

Tango transmitted the codes to the port Master and followed the coordinates to their destination. The TIE interceptor followed close behind as the ships flew lower and lower over the town of Mos Cranmpyss. Underneath her trooper helmet Tango sneered at the dismal outer rim settlement. _ If only these ignorant hicks would realize what the Empire could do for them. The prosperity, the security, the quality of life they could have. What a waste. _Tango engaged the landing gear and unbuckled her restraint.

“Foxtrot, X-Ray, gear up and get Delta from the TIE. We’ll be there in a second.” The two troopers nodded, Foxtrot slinging her DLT-19X sniper rifle over her left shoulder and the 7 foot tall, 385 pound, X-Ray finished sharpening his vibro-ax. They were a couple of uncompromising, relentless forces of nature. A pair of living Death Stars. Point. Shoot. _ Annihilate _. 

And herself? They had called her “the Surgeon.” Some say it was because she could extricate a target from the battlefield with skill and precision. Her superior officers would tell you it’s because she was caught disemboweling her bunkmate. Every member of Pariah Squad was a problem child of the Empire. Violent, unstable, sadistic. Shameful secrets and uncomfortable explanations. It was better to gather them up and send them on missions that were either too boring to be noticed or had a high probability of them simply not coming back. Tango figured this mission the former.

She headed to the back of the shuttle, towards the captain’s quarters. She rapped on the door with her knuckle and cleared her throat, “Ahem. Captain? We’ve docked. The squad’s waiting outside. Perhaps you and the XO would care to join us?” Her attempt to sound apathetic, yet authoritative, did not succeed, the resentment in her voice betraying her true feelings.

The door opened with a metallic whoosh, revealing Captain Flahun’brathanoo’ludra. Left hand on her hip, right arm bracing herself against the doorway, she glared at her third-in-command. 

“_ What?? _ We’re in the middle of a fucking meeting!” Captain Brat wiped the sweat from her upper lip with her thumb and jabbed that same appendage behind her. The azure blue complexion of the Chiss is the first thing you’ll always notice. Brilliant, rich, it’s inarguably beautiful. The second thing Tango noticed was just how much of that azure she was now seeing. Determined to find a more appropriate eyeline she mistakenly followed Brat’s thumb to Whiskey, who was trying to gear up hastily by the unmade bed. 

“Eyes on me. Don’t look at her, Tango,” Brat turned Tango’s helmet to meet her blood red eyes. _ Are they glowing? _ Tango thought to herself, _ Or are my eyes playing a trick on me. _

“Uh, we’re here. We’re docked.” Tango took a step back, wresting herself from Brat’s grasp. “Foxtrot, X-Ray, and Delta are waiting for us outside.”

“_ Sir, _ ” A cocky grin spread across her face, Brat braced herself within the door frame, both arms extended, impeding Whiskey’s exit as she came up behind her. She turned slowly, maintaining eye contact with her subordinate, and drew Whiskey’s lips to hers, kissing her deeply. She pulled away from her second-in-command and crossed her arms, “You forgot to call me “ _ Sir.” _

“Yes, _ sir, _ sorry, _ sir.” _Tango made sure to drip some extra venom on those “sirs” before turning sharply and heading out of the shuttle.

Whiskey adjusted her white pauldron before donning her helmet. “Was that necessary? She already hates us, I don’t need her looking for another reason to dissect me in my sleep.” 

Her accent always betrayed her posh upbringing, something Brat found surprisingly charming. Brat didn’t find other people charming, normally. This made Whiskey all the more fascinating to the Chiss mercenary. Whiskey was different than all the other Imps she’d met. She liked her. She thought about touching her all the time. Not even to kill her, but touch her in a soft way. Brat was fully aware of how little sense that made. Still, though, she liked the way Whiskey talked, the way she held her blaster, the way she sighed in her sleep. Stupid things. Brat thought maybe she was getting sick, that maybe she was infected with something. Her brain wasn’t working the same when Whiskey was around. It was like, if Whiskey was dead, then that wouldn’t be good. It was like, if Whiskey was in pain, she was also in pain somehow. Brat didn’t like these things happening inside her. It felt like some alien had invaded her and was altering her from the inside, but also, at the same time, she didn’t want it to stop. 

“Tango hates everyone that isn’t her,” Brat said dismissively, “Besides, I’ll protect you, baby.” She winked and spun her blasters on her fingers before sliding them smoothly into the holsters that hung loosely on her hips.

Whiskey joined the rest of the squad as Captain Brat strode down the shuttle ramp with swagger you couldn’t help but envy. Her lips now matching her eyes, her jacket now matching her black soul, the Captain was geared up and ready to fuck shit up. She was Darth Vader’s Most Hated Mercenary. She was the Emperor’s Biggest Mistake. The High Plain Drifter from Hell. Csilla’s Bastard Daughter.

“Well, what are you losers waiting for? Let’s go royally _ fuck up _ someone’s day.”

G’Nart stood holding his datapad and stared with bewilderment at the Chiss captain. She looked down, noticing the old porcine face and snarled. She planted her left boot in the center of his chest and gave him a hearty shove, sending him onto his back with wind-stealing _ thud _ to the ground. The old man groaned and squealed in pain as he desperately reached to hold his aching back. Brat counted the credits she owed and slowly let them spill from her hand onto his writhing, decrepit body.

“Keep the change.” Her voice lilting and cruel, she turned and motioned for Pariah Squad to follow.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Bing-bong!  _ The door cheerfully chirped its little song, happily announcing the arrival of a potential customer. The young man, clean cut, with sad eyes and burgeoning worry lines settling into his brow made a few cautious steps forward into the shop.

Around the corner a head poked out of obscurity. The young man, dressed in the conservative uniform of an Imperial warrant officer, cocked an eyebrow and raised his hand to indicate that he did, indeed, exist and would very much like assistance. It was a delicate wave, heavy with fear and desire. Crow had seen it many times before.

The head revealed its attached body and appendages, as Crow came out from the shop’s backroom. “Why hello there! Welcome, welcome to Far Far Away Parts and Collectibles! My name is Crow and here on the Rim it is our  _ pleasure _ to find  _ you _ the parts  _ you  _ need! And don’t forget our wide array of collectibles as well!” Crow ruffled his own wild crop of hair, giving it a lively enthusiasm of its own as he swung behind the display counter. “We have Old Republic blasters, Clone War insignia and braces, we have models, trading cards, wayfinders, gloves from Coruscant, hats from Gloruscant, and fing-longeners from the red light district of Duro!” Crow illuminated the room with his crooked, toothy smile, and dazzled the young officer with his long-memorized performance.

“I...hats from Gloruscant, you say?” The young man’s eyes began to sparkle as he just that instant began to notice the amount of items for purchase at Far Far Away, not only in the display cases, in bins, and on wall hooks, but hanging from the ceiling and filling every nook and cranny. It was almost too much for the eye to take in all at once. “No, no...I was sent, from Upward Station -”

“Upward Station! By the devils, it’s been some time since I was upside on Upward!” Crow wrapped his long arm around the young man’s shoulders and brought him in for a comrade’s embrace. “I used to work that way! How’bout’that, huh? Me and my business associate, that’s where we met, even had the idea for this shop up there in the food court!” Crow looked wistfully upwards at nothing, the young officer’s eyes confusedly following his gaze. “Hey, Olsyn!!!” Crow screeched towards the backroom, “We got ourselves a comrade in arms out here, come on and take a look!”

A second man appeared from where the front-man had only moments before, “Another Uppy?? Well how’bout’that, huh??” He was shorter than the grinning Crow, with bright blue eyes that were highlighted by the worn-in, orange, leather jacket he wore, a long, brown and yellow striped scarf hung comfortably around his neck. Olsyn shook the kid’s hand aggressively and gave him a slightly hesitant slap on the shoulder. Olsyn had never been good at the performative part of conning a rube. He cringed to himself and took a step back, letting Crow continue his part.

“This kid’s in the market for a Gloruscant  _ hat!”  _ Crow raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes at his partner. Olsyn winked and headed towards the stack of hat boxes in the corner.

“No! No, no. I’m uh, I’m here for power converters.” The young officer was finally able to spit out amidst the show. “We’re all out and the other docks won’t share with...with Imperials. A bunch of ignorant  _ bigots…”  _ He trailed off and avoided eye contact. His frustration at having to shuttle all the way down planet-side, coupled with the rude, bullying behavior of the alien dock workers had only added to the growing chip on his straight and narrow shoulders. “I just need one case of power converters.”

Crow and Olsyn raised an eyebrow at each other. Crow crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. Olsyn scratched his stubbly chin and feigned a deeply thoughtful expression. “Dang dang dang… power converters?? Hmmm…” Olsyn pinched his bottom lip as his eyes suddenly snapped back into contact with the officer’s. “We have three cases of converters left. And unfortunately they’ve all been promised to the Anoat docks.” Olsyn furrowed his brow and sighed mournfully.

“All three cases??” The young officer started to look unsure. “Perhaps I should try Belly Fhlerger’s in Mos Mourlok…”

Olsyn and Crow’s eyes met for just a moment before attaching themselves back on the customer.

“Hey, hey now, uh, I’m sure we can figure something out!” Olsyn attempted to soothe their skittish quarry.

“Absolutely! Look, those Anoat dock workers, I’ll level with you...and I don’t like to talk ill of our customers, but let’s just say...they’re not my  _ favorite _ bunch to deal with, okay?” Crow sidled up next to the young officer, whose prematurely worried complexion began to deepen upon this new close contact. “I would  _ much rather _ do business with  _ you.” _

And while he didn’t particularly enjoy these two unkempt junk peddlers getting so close to him, he  _ did _ share their apparent distaste for the Anoats. “That’s probably the  _ nicest _ thing that can be said for those goons!” The officer scowled and bit the inside of his lower lip, an old habit from when he was a young boy. One of the Anoat workers had tripped him in the food court only last week, his face sent careening into his scaldingly hot tip-yip pot pie. He was still applying bacta balm to his face every night. “Cruel! Nothing but an alien-loving gang of thugs!” 

“Exactly! So, we can tell them we miss-counted or were robbed,” Crow looked over his right shoulder, then his left, and back to the officer, “ya know, some  _ bullshit _ those dummies’ll eat up.” He chuckled and winked. “All three cases are  _ yours _ ” then adding quietly and quickly “plus any taxes, compensations, and transfer of ownership fees.”

“Three cases…” The officer smiled.  _ Then those Anoats would come  _ begging  _ to the Imperial side of the docks. On their hands and knees! You couldn’t do practically  _ any  _ major repairs without power converters,  _ he thought the proud, spiteful thoughts of a true officer of the Galactic Empire. “Deal!”

“I took the pleasure of cashing you out,” Crow jabbed his finger at his datapad, “you seemed like you were really enjoying yourself there and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

_ Bing-bong!  _ The door cheerfully chirped, as if to say “So long, and thank you for giving us your credits!” The young officer’s fingers strained under the weight of the three cases now piled high in his arms. Olsyn and Crow smiled and waved cloyingly until he was out of sight.

“Woo!” Crow hollered in triumph, “I almost felt bad there for a minute! Seriously what does the Empire even teach these kids??”

“I think it’s getting easier. I swear.” Olsyn chuckled to himself as he took inventory of the remaining forty-seven cases of power converters they had in stock.

“Like, get out of your bunk once in a while, dude! You can  _ not  _ go your whole life, as an  _ Imperial officer _ no less,  _ that _ naive. You just can’t!” Crow returned to the back room of the shop where Fitz was deactivated, sitting limply on a bench.

The panel on the back of his cranial casing was exposed, a few frayed wires pointed in various directions. Crow picked up the soldering pen and returned to work on the droid, taking two bits of thin wire off of the magnetic plate on the bracer he wore on his left forearm. After the two wires were satisfyingly attached to his circuit board Crow pulled a nail from the plate and took aim with his hammer, taking care to aim his blow perfectly.

“Crow! Fuck, man! You can’t just smash a nail into his circuit board!” Olsyn caught this barbaric attempt at droid repair just in the nick of time. Grabbing the hammer from Crow’s hand and keeping it out of reach.

“Hey! That’s a Haysian nail, made from Haysian ore! It’s a natural conductor!” Crow tried to grab the hammer, just as Olsyn predicted. He quickly gave up and picked his nail off the floor. “You know, I have only, like, three more of these left. You almost made me lose this one. Also, I was gonna use the nail to connect the circuit, it would work just fine! Just like back on Upward Station. Not everything has to look pretty, dude, remember?”

Olsyn bumped Crow out of the way, picking up the soldering pen, and digging out a circuit tracer and a few other parts from a pouch on his bandolier. With deft fingers, Olsyn made short work of Fitz’s repairs, “It looks  _ pretty _ ‘cause it was done  _ correctly.”  _ He closed the cranial panel with a flourish and made that stupid smug face that made Crow want to throw him out a window.

“Stop doing that face,” Crow warned, “Put it away. Put it back where it came from, this minute.”

“What face??” Olsyn’s facial smugness increased by at least thirty percent, “You mean  _ this face??” _

“I’m removing myself from this situation. Good day to you, sir!” Crow threw Fitz’s cap directly at Olsyn’s weaponized smugness. The cap made a soft  _ whap _ as it disrupted the self-satisfied visage of his face. Olsyn laughed and popped the cap on Fitz’s central processing unit and reactivated the droid. 

The ocular sensors of the tactical droid flickered on as his consciousness followed. He adjusted his cap and took a moment to test his processing speed.

“You’ve increased my processing speed by twenty-three percent. Much oh-bliged, Eads.” Fitz picked up his blaster and slung it over his back.

Olsyn looked over the scraps on the workbench, picking up a piece here and there and putting them into various pouches on his bandolier, “To be fair, it was Crow who figured out which of your processors were corrupt and needed bypassing.” He turned to the droid and smiled as he headed out of the back room, giving him a pat on the shoulder as he walked past, “I just did the actual bypassing without having to hammer a nail into your brain.”

Fitz nodded. Paused. “Hammer  _ what _ now??”

_ “YES, WE’RE OPEN!” _ The neon orange words buzzed, welded to the chestplate of OO-P5, the droid greeter and doorman for Ibzi’s Sandwich Shoppe. “Oops,” as he was more commonly known, was a rickety old protocol droid, or at least for the most part. His head had been swapped out for a holodroid’s, a third arm integrated into his torso, and his feet replaced with astromech treads. Ibzi had bought him from the boys at Far Far Away Parts for a hundred quatloos. “Quite a bargain! I got them down from two hundred and seventy!” Ibzi had told anyone willing to listen. Unfortunately, the only winners in that exchange had been the boys at Far Far Away Parts who were all but ready to pick apart the poor old droid for pieces.

Ibzi had installed the neon sign to his chest, shined him up and repaired his holo-projector as best he could, which was the worst most mechanically-inclined could do. Due to Ibzi’s half-baked engineering skills, now only Oops’ head would appear from time to time as a dapper Coruscant  _ maître d',  _ ghoulishly grinning and beckoning you into the restaurant. Most patrons only coming in to escape the polite abomination at the entrance.

Voona and Reg thanked Oops for opening the door, the droid’s ghastly holo-projected face flickering and pixelating as he politely bowed. Voona took the lead and sat in her favorite booth by the window. Reg sat across from her and scrunched his eyes at the overhead fluorescent lighting. His hangover was throbbing with impatience, to Reg it was clear it desired to be birthed from his skull, pushing and pulsating for freedom. The lighting in the restaurant only serving to feed the claustrophobic beast.

“Uuuurrggghh,” Reg laid his head on the cool surface of the table, this seemed to ward the beast off, although slightly, it was still very much appreciated. “If the Force ever wanted to poof me away, now would be just  _ gravy _ .”

Voona caught Ibzi’s eye and gave him a wave. The little creature’s large, round eyes lit up and he happily headed on over to see the chief and her guest.

Ibzi had landed on Shambo thirteen cycles ago with nothing but a bag in his furry blue hand and a dream in his hearts. He left his homeworld to find a place of his own, a place he could begin again and pursue his dream. The dream of sandwiches. He had discovered these delectable creations one day on his first excursion off of Frackle to the 8th Annual Pan-Galactic Soup Convention on Jimimi 3. Ibzi’s first restaurant,  _ Ibzi’s Only Soup & That’s It _ was a mild success in his hometown, known by some for having a variety of exciting and intriguing flavor profiles, and others for being offensive to every sense, including space and time. Ibzi had been determined to bring back any new ideas he could from the convention,  _ Because,  _ he had thought,  _ maybe That  _ wasn’t  _ It.  _ There on Jimimi 3, after a rowdy night of drinks with the other soup-mongers, Ibzi accidentally wandered into the neighboring convention: the 900th Annual Inter-Dimensional Sandwich Conference. It was there that Ibzi’s entire world would be rocked forever. He woke up that morning in a strange hotel covered in sauces, lettuce, sliced tomatoes, flaky bread crust in every nook and cranny of his person. As he looked in the mirror and realized what had happened the night before, the little blue Frackle had an epiphany. It was  _ then _ that Ibzi realized he could never go back to  _ just _ soups. Sandwiches were the future. Sandwiches were  _ his _ manifesto to spread across the galaxy. It was time to leave his homeworld behind and venture into the unknown, sandwiches in tow. And so he did. 

“What can I get for you?” Ibzi cheerfully squawked, “I’ve got a new twice-buttered, greens and herb encrusted tip-yip sandwich with oobebly berry sauce and a side of fried jalapickles, I know you’d love, Chief!” Ibzi scratched his fuzzy beak with the end of his pencil and eagerly awaited her order.

“That sounds excellent, Ibzi,” said Voona, then smiling wryly in Reg’s direction, “ You got anything for a supernova-sized hangover?”

“You think he needs a Laser Brain, chief??” Ibzi chuckled, a scratchy laugh like velcro against a shag carpet.

“With a side of bread, and don’t skimp on the blackened peppers.” Voona winked, and Ibzi returned the gesture. Ibzi whooped and merrily trotted back to the kitchen, it was rare that he was given the opportunity to not only make a new sandwich creation, but a Laser Brain, too!

A service droid wheeled out with their waters as the two waited for their meals. Reg grabbed the glass with two hands and guzzled down the cool, life giving liquid like he had been stranded for weeks in the dune sea. 

Reg sucked the water caught in his mustache and wiped away the rest with the back of his sleeve. Coughing slightly before taking another gulp, Reg put the glass down and buried his face in his arms resting on the table. “So...how are we getting my home back?” His voice only slightly muffled by the comforting darkness of his arms.

Voona sighed and came down to his level, “Reg you need to get some kind of income, then we can maybe get you on a payment plan or something…” Voona grasped at straws. She didn’t know when the town drunk’s well-being became her responsibility, but she was well-aware of her weakness for the broken and helpless. “Or…” She began, carefully, diplomatically, “Maybe you should think about getting a residence in the hostel, maybe work on your...drinking problem?”

Reg peared out from his self-made safehouse, “The only  _ problem _ I have is choking down this glass of bullshit you’re giving me right now,” He sat up straight and winced, the beast in his head clawed at its enclosure, “We need to break my caravan out and crack some skulls! Lady, when i was a  _ knight _ -” He jabbed an indignant finger toward himself and began to rise from his chair.

Voona cut him off, “Reg,  _ enough _ . Enough with this Jedi knight stuff!” Voona felt her lekku get warm as she let her temper get the better of her. “Everyone  _ knows _ you came to Shambo because they ran you off of Ord Mantell for smuggling.”

“Hey! I wasn’t run-off, I  _ chose _ to leave in that crate in the cargo hold of that transport!” His accusatory finger now having a go at Voona.

“Well I’ve never heard any legends of the drunk, smuggling Jedi knight who chose to travel by crate.” Voona sat back in her chair, crossing her arms and avoiding eye contact with the belligerent old man. She looked back at Reg and cocked her eyebrow, “Maybe the Empire is suppressing that noble tale.”

Reg put his flesh and bone hand to his pounding forehead and closed his eyes tightly, “Dammit, Voona, I’m telling you the truth!” He took a moment, pausing to regain his composure. He drank the last of his water and looked Voona in the eyes. “I know I sound like a nut… but it’s the  _ truth _ . I was a hero, I fought in the Clone Wars, I survived the Purge. I was  _ one _ with the goddamn  _ Force _ and the goddamn Force was with  _ me.” _

Voona shook her head, pursing her lips in frustration before rolling her eyes, knowing full well she shouldn’t encourage him  _ or _ take his bait, but his voice was so earnest. He had almost no reason to lie. Frankly… deep down… she wanted it to be true. “Well, then  _ prove _ it.” She said finally, “Jedi’s are supposed to have powers, they could move stuff with their minds. Whip it out. Show me what you got.”

“What, now? Here in Ibzi’s?” Reggie was feeling a little flustered all of a sudden. His eyes darted back and forth before coming back to Voona. “It’s not some parlor trick,” He snickered indignantly, “I’m not some dancing lizard-monkey here to perform for you, ya know!”

Vonna raised both her hands, closing her eyes and grinning, “Okay, fine, nevermind, I’ll catch you later-” She said, beginning to get up to leave.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,  _ fine!”  _ Reg cut her off quickly, falling for Voona’s act. “Just… okay…” Reg brought his left hand up, slowly, aiming his index and middle fingers at the salt shaker on the table. His eyes became fixated on the salt shaker, unwavering. His whole body tensed, his muscles flexed. From deep within his husky frame he called to the living Force. His eyes narrowed as he searched for the connection between the universe, himself, and the salt shaker. The call was made, but the charges were not accepted.

“Why you little!” Reg grabbed the salt shaker with his actual physical hands instead of the all encompassing wonder of the Force and attempted to strangle it out of frustration, “You son-of-a!” The serene majesty of the Jedi would not be showcased that day. “Fuck you!” He swore at the salt shaker before tossing it spitefully back on the table. He let out an exasperated sigh, turning his head, then quickly turning back to Voona. “What the fuck, I had it before! When I made Norple shit himself! You were there!”

Voona sighed and looked at Reg with concern. She wasn’t surprised because she wasn’t expecting anything else to happen. “Reg, look, you need to get yourself together. You’re not a young man anymore.” She took his hands and looked him in the eye. He struggled slightly, but accepted her gesture, “I’m afraid one day I’m going to get  _ the call. _ I don’t want to get that call, Reg. I like you, everyone in Mos Cranmpyss likes you.”

It was at that moment that Ibzi came by with their sandwiches. “Enjoy!” He cawed, leaving them the check. “You too, Sir Knight!” Ibzi winked at Reg and headed back to the kitchen.

Reg looked down at his Laser Brain sandwich and wrinkled his nose, “Everyone loves a clown, I guess.” Resigned to the embarrassment he had become, Reg felt that familiar feeling of hopelessness creep into his brain.

“Hey,” Voona saw the sadness in his eyes, “You’re a good man, Reg. Underneath all that sweaty, booze-addled bullshit. Just get your shit together, and if you want to help people, like the Jedi did, get clean, and maybe there’s a spot on the MC police force for you,” She smiled softly at him, that classic Voona smile that made you feel like you weren’t alone, “I happen to know the chief after all, and she would be happy to have you.”

The two stepped out into the shining afternoon, the sun high and warm, the air crisp and cold. The two friends looked at each other, a quiet moment of recognition between the two of them. For the first time in a long time, Reg felt like maybe there was a reason to be better, to rediscover that young man he used to be.

Voona put on her gloves and took a sip of her to-go cup of java, “Go to the hostel, I’ll come see you later when I get a chance, okay?”

“Sure, chief. Where else am I gonna go, right?” Reg chuckled and flashed a big toothy grin. A grin full of lies.

He waved as the chief drove away in her cruiser, holding his smile until she was out of sight. His smile dropped, he scowled and cracked his knuckles. “I’m gonna go get my fuckin’ home back, that’s where I’m gonna go.” He turned in the direction of Far Far Away Parts and Collectibles with righteous conviction, “Papa’s comin’ for ya baby. Papa’s comin’.”


End file.
